‘Nothing and everything. The diary is full of tales of the kind of petty maliciousness which marks out a small community – little feuds, stifling marriages, secrets which are interesting only because they’re secrets. And the prejudice against us, against the family, which was always there but which faded I think, as the years went by.’
‘But no names,’ said Dryden.
‘No. Just initials. And this is all – the bits I’ve read so far – back in the early eighties, so I can’t even guess the real identities. I was a teenager, all I was interested in was other teenagers.’
She closed her eyes for a second. ‘It’s very good, the quality of her description. I thought I might put it all together as a book, and the people at Mass-Observation are ready to release the material for publication. So who knows.’
She raised her cup to her dry lips and let her eyes run along the bookshelves. Dryden wondered if that had been what had drawn her to the library – the prospect of writing a book herself.
‘She loved books?’ asked Dryden.
‘It was the only thing she brought to this country – that and the clothes she stood up in. A Magyar Bible, some poetry and a blank notebook from her father. Books were almost sacred.’
‘And she filled in her diary… well, religiously?’
They laughed together.
Dryden watched the rain bouncing on the tarmac outside. ‘The police looked at the diaries when she disappeared, didn’t they?’
‘Yes. Mum didn’t send everything she wrote to MO, the stuff about her own thoughts and the family she kept separately. The police did look briefly and I think she’d been honest about how she felt, how the prospect of leaving was like a kind of death approaching – but they had to admit she never mentions harming herself. Not once.’
Dryden stood and climbed down the metal steps, letting the cool rain wash against his face. He took out his card and handed it over. ‘If you do find something of interest you might call? I know there’d be no names, but let me know if you can.’
She nodded, reading the card, and Dryden thought she’d never ring. He imagined her mother, working diligently at her diary in the bedroom above the shop, listening perhaps to the life of Jude’s Ferry outside – a dog barking, a voice raised in anger, feet running home.
‘Did anyone know she kept this diary while she was alive?’
‘No. It was a secret, and that was certainly the rule. But then…’
Dryden waited.
8
He stood on the doorstep of Ely police station, the automatic doors of which refused to open, and looking up watched the drops plunging from a low grey cloud, falling into his eyes. A police communications mast rose into the low cloud, held in position by a series of steel hawsers – home to a flock of chattering starlings. Otherwise the squat two-storey 1970s building appeared to be devoid of life – uniformed or plain clothed. Five squad cars were parked up, smartly washed and waxed, like exhibits in a museum of the motor car. There was a persistent rumour in the town that the station was often completely empty – all semblance of activity being created by a series of time-switch lights. It was where the sleeping policemen worked.
Dryden tried another charge at the immobile doors and, bizarrely, this time they swished open. A police constable appeared at the counter window, recognized Dryden and unclipped his radio from his tunic to access a sheaf of papers in an outside pocket. He thrust a piece of neatly folded A4 into Dryden’s hand: ‘Jude’s Ferry? There’s a statement, but it’s not much. It’s all being run from Lynn, if you want more I’d ring them. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw’s your man.’
‘Shaw,’ said Dryden. He’d already tried CID at Lynn and been told Shaw was running the inquiry. The switchboard had refused to put him through and redirected him to the press office, so he’d hung up. The West Norfolk Constabulary’s website was of little more help. Detective Inspector Peter Shaw was listed as head of the Lynn anti-burglary unit, under a helpline number which took messages when Dryden tried it. He’d searched the website for other mentions of Shaw and found nothing except a reference under the force’s social club to Detective Chief Inspector Jack Shaw, which rang a distant bell, like the sound of a police car on the bypass. Dryden checked
Dryden entered DI Peter Shaw in Google and was directed to the website of Lincoln University. Shaw was listed as a visiting lecturer in forensic science. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse’ thought Dryden. He’d left a message for Peter Shaw but had heard nothing back.
The PC retreated into the bowels of the station leaving his radio on the counter. A buzz of static suddenly filled the laminated lobby…
‘Assistance please. Assistance. This is 155 at Ely Riverside. Ely Riverside. Junction of Waterside and Ship Lane. Assistance. Over.’
The PC was back quickly to reclaim his radio, but Dryden was gone.
Humph put the Capri into reverse outside, leaving a comforting double line of burnt rubber on the tarmac.
‘Perhaps it’s the phantom duck killer back again,’ said Dryden, enjoying the sudden burst of action. A boy racer in a souped-up Corsa had been spotted mowing down a line of chicks crossing the road that spring, leading to a local outcry, and to Dryden’s eternal disappointment the only upward blip in
The Capri hit sixty as Humph swerved past the cathedral’s Galilee porch and then down Back Hill towards the river. The morning’s persistent rain ran in a stream in the gutters. As Humph produced the required screech of
